


Echoes

by circuit_breaker



Category: Shadowrun: Hong Kong
Genre: Gen, Potentially Disturbing Themes, abuse and damaging use of language, discussing music and literature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circuit_breaker/pseuds/circuit_breaker





	Echoes

You came down when I was widening my scope of experiences – clang, clang, clang – you never cared for being silent with your steps, and it always sounded like you were about to destruct the stairs. As long as you didn’t break them, I didn’t mind.

“Racter, I have a request for you–“, you started, then looked at me and stopped.

“Ah, if it isn’t my friend. What is that request of yours?” I asked. You approached, head tilted forwards as though you were a dog hunting down a fox.

“Are you… _Drunk_?” you asked, almost in a whisper, after which your voice started rising from pianissimo to forte. “No, something doesn’t fit. The smell – you do not smell like someone who has just drunk. Yet, you sit by your desk, slightly swaying. Hell, even Koschei is swaying on the floor, with his whole arsenal displayed… And your last sentence was a mix of Cantonese and German, with a thick Russian accent on the top of it all.”

“Speaking of languages, Arabic has never made this much sense to me before”, I said. I had many beautiful notes written in it in front of me.

“That is nice and all, but what have you consumed?” you pressed.

“ Why, _Synthed Tipsies_ , over here – in this bottle. An interesting step in the recent science, let me tell you: they found out an alternative way to affect the brain… That is, this fascinating neurotransmitter system called GABA, short for gamma aminob–“

“Racter, would you _please_ tell me what that stuff does, in plain Cantonese or English. I’m not enthralled to listen to you speak about scientific terms in a mix of several languages.”

“Synthed Tipsies cause a drunken state without a hangover… Or, so they claim. I’m performing an empirical test about that. Currently, it seems like these pills cause more than just a regular tipsiness – in either case, this is simply magnificent”, I summarized. You started to tear your hair at that, just like you usually do when you are stressed or chagrined. “What is wrong, my friend? I doubt that you would start moralizing to an adult person about using drugs.”

You let your breath out in one heavy puff.

“Our run tomorrow. As you most likely remember, our target has a fetish for elves, so I’m being used to lure him into some private place”, you said with a disgusted face. “Well. I could live with that. The problem is, I just got some new information about the run. That person appears at a gala, and he will be dancing waltz all the time. I don’t know how to dance.”

I shrugged.

“And your only hope is me?” I asked.

“Unfortunately. I did a round with others: Duncan doesn’t know anything either; Is0bel is too tiny; Gobbet promised to teach me but that ended up with her showing off disco moves; and I know that Gaichu said that he won’t be around here tonight. So, that leaves only you”, you said and tore your hair again. “Argh! This is hopeless! I didn’t even know whether you know how to dance either, but your current state drains all the hope.”

“Oh, I know waltz, and I wouldn’t call this situation hopeless. I’m not so drunk that I can’t even stand”, I said and demonstrated my claim, rising from my stool.

“Well, you can get up, apparently. Dancing requires more than that, though”, you remarked, still not impressed.

“Yes, it does. Music, for instance”, I replied and went to the computer.

“You can’t be serious”, you said dryly. However, you didn’t stop me and stood still instead. It didn’t take long for the soft sound of flute to pour out, and I stepped closer to you.

“First of all, the hands are held like this”, I instructed, leading your left hand close to my shoulder and taking a hold of your right one. You became tense when my hand slid to your side. “You should practice controlling your facial expressions and body language, my friend. I doubt that our target is more attractive to you than I am, and he won’t be allured by the vibes you are giving at the moment.”

You sighed and improved your posture.

“Much better. Now – listen to the music. There is a certain sway to it… I’ll take a step forward with my left foot; your right foot goes backward”, I said, then proceeded slowly to do so. You kept staring at our feet, insecure. You were usually quick to adapt to new situations, but apparently, dancing hopped over a certain limit inside your mind. Interesting.

“After that, I will move my right foot like this, side-by-side to the left foot but with some distance between them. Your left foot will take a similar step backwards…”

I kept on going through the steps – slowly, very slowly, _too_ slowly for my personal tastes but slowly enough for your learning curve. I confess that it is hard to keep me entertained for long – I am constantly escaping the sensation of utter boredom, through different projects, through discussion, through runs, through new experiences. It might sound strange, but I missed the feeling that Qian Ya had stirred inside me: intrigue, a flow of adrenaline, curiosity.

Eventually, your eyes rose to gaze closer to my face.

“What is this song, Racter?” you asked.

“It’s called Echoes of Waltz.”

“Russian?” you guessed.

“Yes, it is Russian, composed by Georgy Sviridov. What gave it away, may I ask?”

“… Intuition. One obvious reason is that you are Russian, but there is also a certain vibe around the song. In a way, it’s a bit happy, but more than that, there is a certain sensation of melancholy”, you told me.

“Your suggestion implies that you are familiar with Russian music.”

“No, no. I’m not. Sure, I might’ve heard songs from your country, but most of the time, I haven’t paid attention to the origins. When I was younger, I used to know one child… I was kind of bummed when it was raining during my birthday. She sang to me in a language that felt bizarre back then – well, as you can guess, it was in Russian. She told me that the song was about someone who has their birthday during such a gloomy day, yet they decide to go out and play the accordion”, you said. “The song was an odd mixture of happiness and melancholy. This song – Echoes of Waltz? – reminds me of that past sensation.”

“Ah, I have a feeling that I know the song which you are talking about”, I replied.

“I know that this song doesn’t have any lyrics to it – but, is there a story behind it, by any chance?” you asked.

“There is, actually, as this song is based on a short story by Pushkin: The Blizzard.”

“Would you tell me about it?” you continued, clearly trying to make up some conversation. Our past silence had made you feel uncomfortable; no surprise, considering that your main duty is to keep up social ties and act as our social engineer.

“Well, to put it in brief: The story happens in the 19th century. There are two lovers, a young lady called Maria Gavrilovna and Vladimir Nikolayevich. Maria is of aristocratic bloodline, meanwhile Vladimir is an officer. Maria’s parents disapprove of the relationship. That doesn’t stop the two: they decide to get married in secret, after which they could come to Maria’s parents and ask for their forgiveness. They knew that Maria’s parents wouldn’t throw her out of the house, and during that time, marriage couldn’t be broken as easily as nowadays. They promise to meet at the church in the middle of the night. The plan goes awry, however. A vicious snow storm strikes, and Vladimir becomes lost. When he arrives at the church, he notices that he is late.

“After that, Maria is sick. Her parents learn that she is yearning for Vladimir. They decide that it’s for the best to let the two marry – they are concerned that their daughter would die out of heartache otherwise – and they seek Vladimir. They reach him, but he doesn’t come. He is convinced that it is his fate to die. He joins the army and eventually meets his end.”

“Wait, Maria’s parents were offering him her hand and he rejected that? That doesn’t make any sense”, you remarked.

“I do agree that his decisions were foolish, but let us not get stuck to that detail, yes? Maria’s father dies later, too, leaving Maria and her mother behind. Maria, a wealthy and attractive lady, lures many suitors, but she rejects all of them. Even so, she makes a friend in a man called Burmin, an injured colonel.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think that I can handle this. We should switch roles, since we do not know whether he likes to lead or to be led”, you said, and we changed our positions. Your eyes dropped back to our feet, but I could keep on describing the story for you despite of that.

“Burmin has a past of being quite a rake. At this point of the story, he has changed: he is calm and silent. Well, Maria and Burmin become close to each other, and Maria expects him to confess his love for her. That day comes, but not without an unpredictable twist: Burmin tells her that he is already married, to a woman he doesn’t even know or most likely meet again.”

Your eyes rose back up at that, questioning; your stare fell again when you stepped over my foot. Considering how strong your steps were, it was fortunate that my lower body is made of durable parts.

“Burmin tells Maria that he was attempting to join his regimen back in the day. A strong blizzard made him lose his tracks. He met people who were shouting at him, instructing him to enter a church. Curious, he did; and he learned that they were thinking that he was the man who was supposed to marry one woman – who had fainted due to stress. Burmin saw how beautiful the woman was, decided to play a prank and pretended to be the awaited man. That was possible since the church was too dark to see clearly. When the ritual was finished, the woman saw him and noticed that she had been married to a wrong person. She fainted again; witnesses were shocked; and Burmin ran away.”

“Don’t tell me that this woman is…”

“Oh, yes. When Burmin finishes his story, Maria tells him that she is that same woman. And thus, they live happily ever after.”

“What a cheesy story”, you said but with a smile.

“You are free to form your own opinions about that, my friend. Remember to use the other leg while you are leading”, I replied. Your facial expression conveyed an inaudible “oh”, and you fixed the mistake. After a moment, you continued the conversation:

“Racter… Considering that you said that literature and art aren’t the greatest accomplishments of mankind, you know surprisingly much about those topics.”

“I can find them enjoyable without overvaluing them”, I said.

“Yes, I can understand that. But why did you even name yourself after a prose bot?” you asked. I’m a bit impressed that you managed to form the connection.

“Have you been researching the potential origins behind my runner name? I doubt that you would know that simple and historical prose bot without doing so – not many know about it anymore, after all”, I remarked. “You are correct that there is a link. However, I emphasize that there is no contradiction regarding my opinions and decisions: Racter was a bot that created prose. Prose, in turn, cannot ever create Racter or anything else – prose exists merely as lines of symbols that mean something to a self-aware observer who can understand the message. Therefore, we can conclude that Racter was a greater creation than one piece of prose ever could be; a humble yet important step in the evolution towards the post-humanistic future.”

You sighed.

“Okay, I won’t argue against that _now_ – learning to waltz is stealing away a portion of my attention, but I will come back to that later! Anyway, there has been one very important question haunting my mind for some time…” you said and gave me a look that arose my curiosity. You took a deliberate moment of silence before asking:

“Have you ever joined into the Poetry Slams?”

Oh.

“No, I have not – I have my projects to focus on”, I replied when, in fact, I had done that. Frustrating the moderators managed to give me a little bit of amusement sometimes. Why I lied to you about that – you would probably suggest pride, but that wasn’t it. I lied without any particular reason, without even consciously choosing to do so.

“Oh, a shame – I was pretty convinced that you were one of the posters”, you said. I wasn’t sure whether you swallowed my words, but you couldn’t prove your suspicions either. “Anyway. So, you have dived into the world of literature, even though you haven’t _perhaps_ created such yourself. I cannot help but wonder why you also know how to waltz?”

“As you know, I have a longer history of being a shadowrunner. There have been past missions including galas and dancing”, I answered. You looked long at me, suddenly a bit more serious, stepped on my foot again and stopped at that.

“… Does this have something to do with your father, by any chance..?” you asked.

“I don’t know why you’d come to that conclusion, my friend”, I said. “Maybe I made a mistake by telling you about my family. You have been concentrating on that trivial piece of information ever since.”

Your expression didn’t change, but you let the topic drop.

“I think that you are performing decently. It’s quite late, and we all need to recharge for the duties that await us tomorrow. Thus, I suggest that we stop practicing”, I said. I was sincerely quite tired, both because our dancing session began to really bore me and my energy levels were running low. You didn’t argue against that, and so, you left, leaving me into the peaceful darkness. I lit up a cigarette and sat down.

 

* * *

 

 

_“You are a disgrace. No elegance, no rhythm – you will ruin the reputation of the family. This gala is way too important for you to tarnish all my plans. Do you hear me? I asked: do you **hear me**. Ah, you say that it hurts. Always whining. I bring money to the household; and it isn’t too much to expect you to repay that. Convince me that I should allow you to eat.”_

 

_…_

 

_“I learned that your mother got you – tested. Such a delightful lady, your mother. A wicked, lying bitch. She thinks that it is my fault that you are retarded… It is clear that you aren’t my son. She only insists that you are. My children would never be such disappointments as you are; and everyone knows what a slut she is, opening her legs to whoever flatters her even slightly.”_

 

_…_

 

_“Oh, left-handed. Just when I thought that you wouldn’t be more flawed, and this?”_

 

_…_

 

_“Complaining, complaining… When I was young, my father would bring the belt. Kids are merely spoiled nowadays.”_

 

_…_

 

_“Oh, don’t be shy, boy. I will read a story for you. Come here. Here. Don’t make your father wait…”_

 

_…_

 

_“Just a shallow façade, you are… I read the files. Why should I care about your feelings if you do not have them in the first place? You can fool your mother, but me? – never.”_

 

_…_

 

_“First, you are mentally retarded… And now, also physically. Frankly, I’m not even surprised anymore.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Distant sounds. It’s interesting how my biological system stores all those arbitrary pieces of memory. Usually, they stay silent, quiet, controlled. Perhaps it was a side-effect of Synthed Tipsies that they roamed more freely during that moment. Those memories aren’t pleasant; yet, I find it hard to relate to the person who experienced them, a long time ago. To describe the feeling, it is like going through a surgery while being conscious, but being so numbed that you do not feel it when the blade cuts into your flesh (speaking of which, that would be an intriguing experience).

I stood up and walked to the monitor, did a couple of clicks.

The echoes fell into silence.


End file.
